


Playing Along

by hannahsoapy



Series: QLFC 2019 Submissions [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Acting, Crossdressing, Gen, Good Pansy Parkinson, Hogwarts Inter-House Unity, Life Choices, Ron's surprisingly good at it, Shakespeare Inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 07:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19421596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahsoapy/pseuds/hannahsoapy
Summary: Ron's not happy about the latest 'house unity' project. At least, not at first.





	Playing Along

**Author's Note:**

> Submission for QLFC Round 6
> 
> Chaser 1 for the Chudley Cannons
> 
> Prompt: Cross Dressing. Write about someone dressing as another gender.
> 
> Optional Prompts:
> 
> 9\. (dialogue) "How are you okay with this? I can hardly believe it myself."
> 
> 6\. (color) mustard
> 
> 1\. (word) uncomfortable
> 
> Word Count: 1617

"How are you okay with this? I can hardly believe it myself!"

"Ronald, this is about mending fences, and showing the rest of society that we can forgive each other and get along."

"Funny. Cuz I still think it sounds like we're being forced to put on a play with the Slytherins."

Hermione groaned, loudly. Harry, just then wandering over to join them, raised an eyebrow at her outburst.

"What's happened?" he asked. "Gotta be good, if you're making noise in the library about it, 'Mione."

"You haven't heard?" Ron cried, and promptly received a round of shushing from the occupied tables around them. He was hardly repentant, but he did lower his voice a little as he continued, "We're doing a school play. With the Slytherins."

"With who?" Harry asked in disbelief.

"With whom," Hermione corrected. "And it's not just the Slytherins. It's in the spirit of unity; everyone is going to participate."

"Yeah, alright," Harry shrugged, apparently unbothered. "Long's they don't try anything, I'm game. What play?"

"It's not been decided yet, but McGonagall told me it'll be one of Tragodia's, since everyone knows him."

"Who's that?"

"The most famous playwright in wizarding history! Harry, do you not pay attention in class at all?"

Ron, meanwhile, dropped his head down on his book. He had a dreadful feeling about this.

Auditions were mandatory for the 7th and returning 8th year class. The other years could try for a part if they wished, but it wasn't a requirement.

Ron left his audition feeling ready to puke.

"That was awful," he told Harry when he found him outside the Great Hall, where he was waiting his turn.

"What'd they have you do?"

"Read lines with Goyle," Ron said, with a shudder.

Harry's face twisted sympathetically. "Well, wish me luck," he said. "Pretty sure they're going to call me in with Malfoy."

"I don't think it'd help you much even if I did," Ron said, shaking his head. "Break a wand, mate."

"Believe me, I'll be trying."

Two days later, callbacks were posted outside the Great Hall. All of the seventh and eighth years were on the list, along with a few other students from the younger years that had auditioned. Ron really should have expected it, since Hermione had said this was all for house unity, but he'd been hoping she was wrong.

Maybe he'd just be a tree in the background, he thought hopefully, dragging his feet down to the meeting later that evening.

There was a tall, thin, serious-looking man with McGonagall that he recognized from the audition. He was their director, she explained as she introduced him, a Mr. Regere, from the Polli Gone Theatre Company in Diagon Alley.

He called them up individually to receive their parts and lines, but when Ron heard who he was playing, he thought there must have been a mistake.

There was no way he'd been cast as a girl!

"No mistake, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall assured him.

"Unfortunately, very few of your classmates were inclined toward the stage," Mr. Regere said kindly. "Your audition was quite good. Have you considered a career as a thespian?"

"A what?" Ron croaked.

"A career on the stage, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall clarified.

"Er, no."

"Well, do think on it," Mr. Regere said. "Now, first rehearsal is in two weeks. Please have your lines mostly memorized by then."

Ron accepted the thick stack of parchment containing his lines and stage directions a bit numbly, and somehow made his way back to Gryffindor Tower.

"There's a long history of boys acting in girl's roles in the theatre, Ron."

"Not helping," Ron said, slumped on a couch in the common room.

"The director said your audition was good," Harry pointed out. "Are you sure it was all that awful?"

Ron just smacked himself in the face with a throw pillow and groaned. He could practically feel the looks Harry and Hermione were exchanging over his head.

Two weeks later, after the first rehearsal, he had to admit (at least, only to himself) that it wasn't that bad. He might have enjoyed it a little, tiny bit.

He didn't even mind that most of his scenes were with Parkinson. It helped that he'd only had to interact with her in character, on the stage, but maybe it was also that she was a much better actor than Crabbe.

He saw what Regere had meant. Apart from himself, Parkinson, Finch-Fletchey, Malfoy, and Luna, who all had the main roles, the others were clearly not cut out for acting.

Hermione, to her credit, attempted to deliver her lines with a little more emotion than most, but still fell a little flat. Harry might as well have been reading his two lines from a history textbook with how bored he sounded, and it was clear he had no idea what to do with himself on the stage.

Ginny… well, she'd had a handful of lines at the start of rehearsal, but by the end, Regere had cut her down to only two, and advised her that she should "just stick to Quidditch, Miss Weasley, please." Ginny hadn't looked particularly disappointed.

The second rehearsal went even better than the first. Everyone seemed much more enthusiastic about the play in general, and Ron found himself looking forward to performing it for an audience. Regere beamed at them at the end of the evening, and announced that the next rehearsal, which would be their last before the actual performance, would be a full-on dress rehearsal.

Ron had forgotten that he was playing a girl's part until then.

How in bloody hell had he forgotten, he berated himself, staring himself down in the mirror as if it could change the horrible, uncomfortable, dragging-on-the-floor, mustard-colored dress he was wearing.

He didn't know where McGonagall had found their wardrobe, but it looked (and felt) like it had come from the same place his mother had gotten his Yule Ball dress robes.

Ron startled at the knock on the dressing room door that he had sequestered himself in.

"Are you finished touching yourself up in there, Weasley?" Parkinson called.

Ron took a fortifying breath and opened the door. Parkinson looked at him, and one of her perfectly spelled into shape eyebrows lifted expressively.

"Salazar's beard," she said, and drew her wand. Ron shuffled a half-step back instinctively.

"This is a monstrosity," she declared, and made several slashing and swishing movements with her wand. Abruptly, the dress went from mustard to deep green, shortened to just brushing his ankles, lost a significant amount of lace, and became much more comfortable in the shoulder region.

Pansy sniffed and nodded approvingly at her changes, eyebrow lowering to a more natural position.

"Thanks," Ron said, not even bothering to curb how much relief he let bleed into his tone. Parkinson tossed her hair back haughtily.

"I couldn't possibly have acted decently next to that," she said. "Now move, Weasley. I need the dressing room."

Ron quickly obeyed, smiling in bemusement. The dress was leagues better after whatever spells Parkinson had used on it. He didn't even mind it, really. The skirt was actually rather nice, he thought, giving it an experimental swish (definitely not a twirl). Perhaps –

"Well, you're looking comfortable, Weasley," came Malfoy's unfortunately familiar drawl. "Got something you like there?"

Ron stiffened, guiltily, and couldn't even think of a proper retort. Luckily, he didn't have to.

"Please, Draco," Parkinson said, suddenly appearing behind him. Ron turned in surprise. She'd taken hardly any time in the dressing room, but she looked like she'd spent hours in there.

"You really don't want to start calling people out on the… interesting things they've been found to wear on occasion, do you?"

Malfoy didn't say anything to that, but his pursed lips, pointed glare, and quick exit were very telling.

"What have you caught him wearing?" Ron asked Parkinson incredulously.

"Let me give you some advice, Weasley," Parkinson said, grabbing his arm and leading him towards the stage. "Everything is interesting to other people when you don't want them to know about it."

Ron furrowed his brow, confused.

"Oh, and you owe me," she added. "I'll take an exclusive after your first sold-out show."

"What?" Ron said, now quite bewildered. They'd stopped behind the curtain just off stage. He could hear Regere trying to get everyone's attention to begin rehearsal.

"I'm starting as a reporter for the Prophet after we graduate," she said. "An interview with you will set off my career nicely."

"I'm going to be an Auror," Ron said reflexively, but he could feel himself cringing away from the words as he said them.

"Don't be silly," Parkinson said, rolling her eyes. Ron opened his mouth to protest, but she gave him a shove out onto the stage.

He'd nearly missed his cue, but he responded automatically to the half-heard line, smoothly falling into his role.

Had he ever really wanted to be an Auror, he wondered, or had he just been following Harry? Not that that was a bad thing, but he'd spent so much time fighting Death Eaters that now it was over, he supposed he hadn't really thought about whether that was what he actually wanted to do with the rest of his life, too.

Maybe Parkinson was right, a part of his mind admitted, as he moved around the stage like he already belonged there (maybe he did).

.

.

.

Six months later, after three weeks of sold-out shows, Parkinson sitting across from him with her reporter's quill poised over parchment, and wearing a smug, triumphant smirk, it was all he could do not to say it out loud.

(She already knew.)


End file.
